A Clutch of Memories
by Rabellu
Summary: An AU fic attacked to the SHARDS storyline, you can find out more about here: http://www.geocities.com/raedavidson/ . This one tackles the past of one of the antagonists, and is her POV from before she went insane. Please note, she is not originally part


Alrighty. Seeing as I'm now the official writer of Shards, I need to crank out some more background stories. Although I love song-fic format, I decided not to use it. I have decided to use instead of song-fic format for Ankoku's story, normal story telling.  
Ankoku is a young child during this story. She doesn't immediately enter the digital world during this small portion of her unhappy past. This entire story is the very key to important actions Ankoku perform in Shards.  
This story would probably take a PG-13 to R rating. Although there is no graphic violence in here (I can't really bring myself to write grotesque slash fests. 1. Because I'm not that f***** up yet. 2. Because it disturbs me to write violent episodes), Ankoku's mother is employed in the world's oldest profession for women (no, not nursing), and some other minor details. All in all, the fic would probably merit a PG-13 for less strict guidelines.  
Anyways, on with the fic! I hope you enjoy. I spent several days trying to think up Ankoku's past, and let me tell you; it isn't easy trying to think up things for villain characters. Especially if you want to make them the angsty sort. Really, I don't know how CLAMP does it! n.n  
  
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The bazaar bustled and hummed busily with the sounds of vendors hawking their wares, customers haggling, the gentle tinkle of delicate bangles as they pinged softly upon their kin; sliding down the arms of the market women both rich and old.  
Through the chaotic mêlée of the crowds, I looked upwards at my mother. A child, I clutched her soft, perfumed hands with my sticky ones, as I let her lead me through the markets.  
I still remember her long mahogany-brown hair had been pinned up shakily with as she had looked at her reflection in the beautiful glass mirror she had been given by a former lover. I coveted that mirror, with its beautiful frame. The frame was made of gold, and it was rectangular in shape. It arched beautifully, making the mirror appear, as it was a window looking out at some other dimension; someplace my mother longed to be.  
I had watched her quietly, standing solemnly next to her. With a childlike innocence, untainted by the visions of violence and sorrow to come, I watched as she rouged her lips and lined her eyes with black kohl.  
To me, our home was a palace. I had grown up in a marble Shangri-La full of luxurious furnishings, sculptures, intricate murals, and elegant fountains. However, I was a caged bird, my only company being my mother. Whenever my stepfather joined us in our room, I detected a queer sorrow in her eyes... They always seemed to be saying "So sorry... so sorry..." as if her woeful looks could compensate for the shameful knowledge that my mother had been sold to my stepfather.  
I cannot know completely what exactly went on in her life, and how she came to her woeful life. The little I know was pieced together from scraps of childhood memories that have driven me to power. For every memory is coated in a feeling of helplessness, and guilt. Guilt that I couldn't help her, that I was too scared and too weak. A feeling I never want to feel again  
There is so much about my mother I never learned, that I wish I could know. But she is lost forever to me, now... a distant figure smelling faintly of some rich perfume that cannot quite be remembered.  
That day she took me away from her cage.  
  
But at what cost to herself?  
  
As we passed through the bazaar, I took in the sights and sounds with relish. I had only seen in passing before. It seemed as if now, my mother was trying to show me the exotic world she'd grown up in, as if she unconsciously knew this would be our last full trip together.  
We padded into the tents that sold spicy smelling perfumes, where jewels sparkled dazzlingly on rich velvet, to places that sold sweetmeats so rich with honey that your teeth ached and your tongue felt heavy after eating them.  
My mother humored my every whim that day, and after we had eaten a savory lunch ordered from a vendor in the bazaar, my mother took me firmly by the hand and led me to out of the bazaar and into a street of modest looking businesses.  
She was wearing a crimson dress, with a shawl of the same color embroidered with gold thread, rubies, and pearls. Glass bangles clinked musically as her hands fidgeted with her clothing. Her mahogany-brown hair was twisted into a silky rope-style braid, and it fell down her shoulders to the small of her back. Her sad, hazel-colored eyes watched every step I took, as she smiled wistfully at me.  
We finally reached what seemed to be the end of this business street, and my mother stopped up to look at four-story building with a sign that proclaimed it to be a mercenary agency.  
Her eyes grew sadder, and she walked me inside. It was furnished sparingly, and the walls were a pristine white. The floor was glossy, dark wood; polished so well I could see my reflection in it. Spears, swords, and other military paraphernalia decorated the walls.  
My mother talked softly to a woman at a desk. The woman looked sourly at her, and it took my mother several minutes to persuade the woman to take her to someone's office...  
The woman finally assented, looking bitterly at the two of us. She led us through an archway located to our right, and up a flight of stairs. The hallway became darker, and my mother's hand grew tense. We were finally brought to a door, which opened into a study.  
There, the woman left us, and we were left to deal with a man. The man wasn't overly handsome, but he wasn't unpleasant to the eye. He had black hair that was cropped short at the base of his neck. His angular face was somewhat tanned, and his eyes were dark gray eyes were solemn, but some unnamed emotion flickered in them when he saw my mother. He was well built, as befit a warrior; and his face was cleanly shaven. His hands were slightly calloused, and a greyish-pink scar ran across his face. He wore a modest tunic of dark gray cotton, black leggings, and a red strip of cloth tied around his head, keeping his long hair out of his face. A leather belt with brass buckle was clasped around his waist.  
He and my mother stared at each other strangely for several minutes, and then he spoke, his voice tinged with bitterness.  
"So, you've come back."  
My mother bowed her head in shame, and bit her lip. From my vantage point, I saw her eyes well up with tears. I remember I felt shocked, for I had rarely ever seen my mother cry. She refused to cry in front of me, believing it was weak to cry in front of others. She hated crying, not only because of that, but because whenever she cried, I cried too; and she hated making me unhappy.  
I never really appreciated this sacrifice until I later, recognizing the pain in her eyes for something more. Something I couldn't understand until then.  
"What is it you need?" He asked, a bitter hatred in his eyes. "Money? You can't need it... after all you live in a palace. Protection? From whom? Yourself?"  
"Please... it's not that." My mother choked out. "Don't make this harder for me..."  
"You chose to live this way, you chose the hard way... Can't deal with it now?"  
My mother glanced down at me, and I saw blood welling up on her lip. Her tears were threatening to spill over, and se looked as if she were choking.  
"It's for my daughter..." She said, afraid to look him in the eye.  
"You expect me to house his bastard?" He asked incredulously.  
"Don't... talk about her that way. Talk about me anyways you like, but don't insult my daughter." She said, her voice dark with anger. "Besides, haven't you heard the rumors? He couldn't beget a child if he wanted to... And he knows it. That's why I've brought her here.... Because he wants her dead."  
"Why is it any of my concern?"  
"Because..."  
At this point my mother pushed me out of the room, tears falling down her face, causing black streaks to darken her cheeks. However, I was a resourceful child, and I listened to their conversation under the door. As I was young, it took me many years to understand what they were talking about, but after many piecings together; I managed to make sense of that conversation.  
"Because she's your daughter!" She said as soon as she closed the door. "Do you think I married him because I wanted to? Do you? Don't you know who stands before you Mirran? A simple slave! I was sold to pay off my family's debts, and then Filia sold my contract to him!" She fell heavily against the door, her hands covering her face as she sobbed unrestrainedly for the first time, in what seemed years. "Did you think, in all our time together I would have loved someone else?"  
There was long period of silence, as Mirran digested this information. I heard a tremulous sigh from my mother as she attempted to control her sobs. I could picture her biting her lip, hugging her tightly as if physical pain would stop her from feeling mental pain.  
"No… no... don't hold it in Jhana... you've done it for too long... as have I." Said Mirran's tired voice. I heard him step towards her. "Jhana, don't... you're only hurting yourself. Don't be stubborn."  
"Is it any of your business whether I'm stubborn or not?" She shouted at him. As soon as it came out of her mouth, she let out a cry and said. "I'm sorry... all I've done is bring trouble to everyone. I wouldn't... I wouldn't trouble you except that-- my--our... daughter. He wants her dead."  
Her weight shifted as she stood up. "He knows she's not his, so she wants her dead. He--he's mad!" She gave a mirthless laugh, bitter and hollow. "Filia thought she was doing me good, marrying me off to the governor of Kesh. A jealous, stinking drunkard. A crazy one at that." She laughed again.  
"Please... keep her safe here. I can't keep her safe anymore in--in that place!!! He's already tried twice, and I don't know what to do... He can hurt me, I don't care... but I don't want him to hurt Ankoku... Please Mirran, keep her here. I can't keep her safe anymore." Her voice cracked, but she didn't cry again.  
Mirran sighed. "I'll do as you ask... But you realize, that I can't hide her forever, as much as I wish I could." More footsteps. "Jhana, he'll find her eventually. And neither you nor I can stop him. Even if we made a break for it, even if we fled Kesh he'd find us."  
At this, my mother was silent.  
"Hide her... hide her if he comes. Deny ever knowing about her. I'll tell him that she ran away from me in the bazaar. He'll forget about her."  
Another long silence...  
"When... did you know you carrying her...?" Mirran asked.  
"...After Filia sold me. By then, it was too late...for anything then."  
"Was that the day, you told me... you didn't love me?"  
"...I didn't want you... I didn't want you to be hurt."  
"...Didn't work you know."  
"...I know." 


End file.
